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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24967831">Lie, Liar; Believe, Believer</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lapwing_1835/pseuds/Lapwing_1835'>Lapwing_1835</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Death Note &amp; Related Fandoms, Death Note (Anime &amp; Manga), Death Note: Another Note</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A Wild 17-Year-Old-L Appears, A and B are totally painted as victims here, Angst, B Is L-Sexual, Beyond Birthday Being Creepy, Beyond Birthday is His Own Warning, Bottom L (Death Note), Childish Beyond Birthday, Childish L, Drabbles (sorta), Hopeless Romantic!Beyond Birthday, I feel like I should repeat the unhealthy relationships tag, L (Death Note) is a Dick, L Is Gay, L Plays Piano, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Obsession, Oh Look All My A Headcanons, Poetry, Possessive Behavior, Self-Indulgent, Top Beyond Birthday, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Vignette, at one point he stands behind L for like twenty minutes breathing on his ear, emo L, except not really L is just a brat, jk he's bi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 11:14:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,972</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24967831</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lapwing_1835/pseuds/Lapwing_1835</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>B tries to become L the person.</p><p>A tried to become L the machine.</p><p>They both fail.</p><p>Eventually.</p><p>--</p><p>A series of vignettes depicting Beyond Birthday, A, and L’s time at Whammy’s House.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>A &amp; Beyond Birthday &amp; L, Beyond Birthday &amp; L, Beyond Birthday/L</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Lie, Liar; Believe, Believer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Humans were not made to be machines. Perhaps they could do the job just as well as the machines, maybe even better.</p><p>But something machines never do, is ask why. Why am I doing what I do? That’s something unique to humans.</p><p>Quillish would have done better with a computer as L’s successor.</p><p>--</p><p>The first time B meets L, the first time L meets B and doesn’t just hear a report, is a power trip for L. </p><p>He doesn’t turn around when B enters the room. He doesn’t need to. Instead, after a minute, L gets up and walks to the window, slouching in a way that makes B want to do the same, but he doesn’t because that was before he stopped being afraid of messing it up, before he realized it was one of the few things that terrified L. </p><p>“You idolize me, is that right?” L’s voice is emotionless. He could be talking about anything. For a disconcerting moment, it reminds B a lot of A’s- but no. There’s a touch of amusement in L’s voice. </p><p>What does he think is funny? B shuffles his feet and hooks his thumbs in his pockets. “I mean, yeah. Everyone at Whammy’s does.” And tries to ignore the oddness of this conversation. </p><p>L still doesn't turn around. "But you idolize me more than all the rest of them, don't you?" L asks, his voice not even bothering to hide his amusement this time. Is he... laughing at B?</p><p>B remained silent in wordless question.</p><p>"Roger told me that you've been asking about me." L answered. "He said that you wanted to know what I looked like. Well, here I am." And L turned around.</p><p>B didn't know how to feel. His first thought was that L wasn't much older than him, a fact that would become crucial in later years but one that, for now, he could ignore. </p><p>He'd fantasized about meeting L for so long that now that he sees him... he's been scared that L wouldn't be good enough. But that's one of the silliest thoughts he's had in a while, because L's far better than any fantasy B's made of him, and so his first feeling is relief.</p><p>And his second is desire. Not the romantic kind of desire, that'll come soon, and not the hateful kind of desire, that'll come even sooner, but mere awe. Awe that L is human. So, desire to be like him, to be by his side.</p><p>But of course, B can never be by L's side. His nature as L's successor, by definition, precludes that.</p><p>B merely looked at L, and nodded. His voice is almost steady. He'll learn, later, how to make his voice as expressionless as L's, even when he feels like screaming. "Was there anything else you wanted to show me?"</p><p>L turned around, already finding looking into the boy's piercing eyes unpleasant. Later, he'll find them terrifying, and he won't want to look away. But for now, he does turn away, and merely says, "Nothing else." </p><p>After a minute, the boy leaves.</p><p>And a minute after that, all thoughts of the boy are out of L's head.</p><p>--</p><p>B had started out as a mystery, as, as a matter of fact, most important things in L's life did.</p><p>L's facination with B began as a detective, wanting to unravel the mystery that was B. That never really changed. It simply... elaborated on itself.</p><p>Well, a narcissistic mystery.</p><p>But really, what other kinds of mysteries did L solve?</p><p>--</p><p>B was staring out of his window and chewing on his thumbnail. He had developed the habit of stargazing ever since he had, one night, happened upon L staring out his own window, and he thought it looked like a good idea. </p><p>At least, he’d thought it was a good idea at the time. That was before he stayed up all night last night. It turned out that insomnia was really only tolerable when it was forced upon you. </p><p>It turned out that attempting to give yourself insomnia wasn’t an easy feat. It made B less alert, and B hated feeling less alert. It made him wonder what was the point. He could paint dark circles under his eyes as much as he wanted. It made him wonder who he was putting on a show for - L? Or himself. </p><p>If he was putting on a show for L, he wouldn't need to give himself insomnia and drink nearly-solid tea for breakfast. If he was putting on a show for L, he only needed to think about him once a month - if that. </p><p>But here he was, looking out at the cloudy night sky, trying desperately to stay awake. Why was that? Was he merely so obsessed with L that any activity not related to him bored B? </p><p>He sighed in annoyance at himself and shifted his legs from where they had fallen asleep, trying to send a message to his brain that it had not received. And there he went again, trying to analyze his own motivations. The only people who try to analyze themselves are insecure people. Weak people. </p><p>He doesn't do that. He knows who he is. People like him are powerful. People like... L. </p><p>Just the letter. Just thinking of that one letter was enough to jump-start his heart. He doesn't actually experience his emotions, when L's around. He immediately, upon feeling them, shoves them into a little box to open up later, because if he let himself feel than who knows what he'd do. Something he'd regret, probably. </p><p>Deciding that evidently, no non-L related thoughts were going to be had, he opened the box, abandoned his chair by the window to lay on his bed, looking at his ceiling, and thought of L. </p><p>L... L... L. "I want him," he said aloud. And it was true. He felt quite a lot towards L... anger, hatred, love, desire, possessiveness, even sadness... but no matter what fantasy he was having, whether he was slowly ripping off L's toenails or holding his hand, they all had one thing in common; L was here, and L was his. </p><p>And neither of those were ever going to happen, at least in this lifetime. </p><p>So B sighed, and B fantasized, and B fell asleep two hours before he had wanted to, laying on his bed, thinking of L and the stars.</p><p>--</p><p>You only think about me when I'm right in front of you. </p><p>So I'll stay right in front of you.</p><p>--</p><p>“Don’t do that.” </p><p>“Do what?” And he’s tilting his head and widening his eyes in the way L always looks at Watari when he wants another piece of cake, and where did he see that, where the fuck did he learn how to do that-</p><p>L scoffs, and looks down at his now empty plate, dropping the fork on it with a clatter. His voice a bit rougher than usual, he says, “Making a mockery of me.”</p><p>B grins, and it’s not L’s grin, and that little piece of not-me is what stops L from leaning back and maybe whimpering a bit when B leans into his space and tucks a piece of hair behind his ear. He’s not afraid. Of course he’s not afraid. </p><p>“Oh, I’d never mock you, sweetheart.” And his words are dripping with lies and poison, and he’s really just like L but rougher around the edges, isn’t he-</p><p>“Don’t call me that.” This is going just as it always does, B is pushing him, pushing his boundaries and seeing what he can get away with, and L is feebly telling him to stop but not doing anything about it.</p><p>“Call you what? Sweetheart?” B sits back on his heels and L just manages to hold in the breath of relief that comes from his sudden increase in personal space. </p><p>Which leads him to wonder, why does he still invite B into his room even when he (terrifies) discomfits him so? Masochism, maybe. That wouldn’t surprise him. </p><p>B raises a hand to his mouth and studies L like one of his interesting insects under a microscope. “I don’t know. I think it fits you. With how much candy you eat, I know for a fact you taste like sugar,” and there it is, there’s that effortless charm that B somehow manages to pull off that L could never quite grasp, how B can charm someone and terrify them in the same moment, “and, well,” </p><p>B shoves him so he’s suddenly laying on the couch with B’s face much too close to his face, and B lays his head on L’s chest for a moment, listening, then leans forward so L can feel his breath on his neck. “I like the way your heart sounds. Maybe one of these days I’ll rip it out of your chest.” And L can’t stop the whimper that time, why did he let B into his room, why is he here, why isn’t he kicking B to get off him like he knows he can, </p><p>“Open your eyes, beautiful.”</p><p>Hesitantly, L opens his eyes, not realizing he closed them (that’s a bit of an error in judgment, what is it about B that makes him feel like someone stole the part of his mind that always knows what to do) and looks at B’s face in front of him.</p><p>He looks every inch a monster.</p><p>He looks every inch exactly like L.</p><p>He winks, and the moment is gone. </p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>“Yes?” </p><p>“D’you wanna finish that movie?” </p><p>L’s heart is racing, and L knows exactly why he lets B stay around. Maybe he’s B’s reason for existence, but he’s glad. He wouldn’t want anyone to have him. B’s the only one who makes him feel alive. </p><p>“Yeah.” He says shakily. “Alright.” </p><p>B smiles, then, something soft and pure and so completely different then the way he smiled earlier that he doesn’t even seem like the same person. </p><p>He licks the tip of L’s nose. </p><p>L thinks, that if they were a normal couple, and not two souls lost in the dark doing this whole thing against their better judgement, that this would be where he says “I love you.”</p><p>--</p><p>Every aspect of the two boys has something to do with L. So while B had tea and played chess with L, while B stared at L himself L in the mirror and screamed, A was studying and A was learning and both of them were learning exactly how to be L.</p><p>-- </p><p>hope</p><p>/hōp/</p><p>noun</p><p>1: to cherish a desire with anticipation : to want something to happen or be true.</p><p>A wouldn't disagree with this definition, because it was a definition. A cold hard fact. Facts are taken as laws until there is evidence that they are incorrect, at which point they become archaic ideas, suited only to be studied by scholars who shake their heads at us to feel wise.</p><p>However, if A was asked to put this definition in his own words, he would reply that hoping for something was not merely desiring it. That's too simplistic for the word. Instead, A would say that hope is operating on the basis that the least likely option was going to occur simply because one wants it to. </p><p>A has never been much of a one for hope, can you tell?</p><p>But he's always been idealistic, and there's a difference there, he would say. A would say that being hopeful is like standing in a dark room, believing that the lights are going to come on any minute now, and being idealistic is like standing in a room half-lit and half in shadow, and choosing to walk in the half filled with light. </p><p>A's parents were not murdered. A's father died of cancer and his mother committed suicide, with him in the car. He can remember the whole ride perfectly. He can remember asking her questions that she didn't answer, he can remember his dawning horror as the car veered off the road into a tree, he can remember the sensation of his seat belt holding him back as the car came to an abrupt stop. Which is funny, because he doesn't remember anything before that.</p><p>He just stopped thinking about it until he had nothing to think about.</p><p>--</p><p>"Who are you, A?"</p><p>"A better question would be, who will I become?"</p><p>"Who will you become, then?"</p><p>"I will become L."</p><p>--</p><p>L’s eyes are burning. He’s staring out into the countryside, and he can barely make anything out. Mind you, if it was daylight, he doubts he could make anything out either. He hasn’t slept for fifty-six hours, his head is throbbing like a freight train hit it, his vision has developed this absolutely lovely habit of tunneling and seeing ‘stars’ and he’s deciding the merits of informing B that he’s arrived to Whammy’s House two hours prior. </p><p>He’s done everything he can with his current cases, and as of now needs updates from police agencies before he can proceed. This means that it would be a great time for him to actually get some sleep. </p><p>But he can’t. Especially not in this bed. Especially concerning what happened in this bed the last time he slept in it-</p><p>And his ear is freezing. Are cold ears a symptom of sleep deprivation now? It feels like a breeze is blowing, and only towards his right ear. What is up with that? He’d thought he’d categorized all the symptoms of insomnia by now, but apparently not. </p><p>He sighs, leaps off his chair by the windowsill with all the agility of a leapfrog and decides to try laying down in his bed counting every third prime number again.</p><p>At which time he gives out an arguably dignified and manly shriek when the shadows behind him form a boy with shaggy hair and a brilliant white shirt. </p><p>“Why’re you so surprised?” B smirks, like he hasn’t been lurking behind L’s chair for god knows how long. “I thought for sure you’d notice me as soon as I walked in the door. Apparently the best minds can still be fooled.”</p><p>L folds his arms over his chest and tries to calm himself down. He most certainly does not pout. That would be unprofessional of him. “I haven’t slept for approximately fifty-six hours and thirteen minutes, you know.” He assuredly does pout when another indigence occurs to him. “Were you breathing? On my ear?!”</p><p>B chuckles softly. “I thought for sure you would’ve noticed.” </p><p>“Yeah, well.” He was not going to mention that in his current muddled state he had considered cold ears being a symptom of insomnia. “My ear is cold.”</p><p>“Oh? Well that’s too bad.” B laughs again. He is decidedly too cheerful and awake during a time when the world, including L, should either be asleep, or counting prime numbers. L glares at him. </p><p>B walks over to him, loosely wraps his left arm around him, and stands there for a moment. L can feel his breath on his neck again, and this time it’s heat means there’s no mistaking it for a draft. L shivers slightly, though he’s not entirely sure why. He feels B’s lips brush against the same ear that he’d been breathing on. Almost shyly (coyly) he licks L’s ear. </p><p>If this was the daytime, L’d be shying away and grinning at B like this was all just a really funny joke. But it’s not the daytime. It’s the night, and the moon is shining, and L had never thought that he’d have anyone to look at the moonlight with. So he doesn’t move away, and he tells himself it’s because he’s tired and doesn’t have the energy, but really-</p><p>L missed B. </p><p>B wraps his arms around him, and they stand there, as close as they can really get. B kisses him. And he’s being so hesitant, so shy (and that’s ironic, because he wasn’t behaving like that the last time L saw him, not at all) that L just can’t bear the thought of pushing him away. Because B might actually listen to him, and L doesn’t want him to leave, L doesn’t want that at all. </p><p>So L hugs him back and after a minute, he lays down next to B. His eyes are still burning, and they burn ten times worse when he closes them, and that doesn’t seem very fair to L, but nonetheless, he feels a lot more relaxed than he has in a while. So L falls asleep, and the next day...?</p><p>The next day is different than a usual day with them is. The next day is quieter. B doesn’t constantly walk as close as he can to L, doesn’t constantly make such odd assertions, and L doesn’t push him away, not once. </p><p>’I might not mind this,’ he lets himself think. ‘I might not mind.’</p><p>And that’s the most he can let himself think, but it really means,</p><p>‘I love this.’</p><p>--</p><p>B spends every single night with L. </p><p>B sits in his chair by the window, and L alternately sits by his feet, on his lap, on his bed, standing... or sometimes, if B's feeling particularly generous, he'll bring another chair over.</p><p>They don't usually talk about much. Usually, L spends almost all of his time talking. That's fitting, B realizes later, because in his actual conversations with L, he's always the one who starts a conversation. </p><p>Because B sits with L on average three days a month, with rounding (B knows, he calculated it) and that's when B barges into L's room uninvited. </p><p>Every other time is just a fantasy. </p><p>B also stands in front of his mirror, and he pretends that he's standing in front of L. He pretends that he's finally gotten L to come to his bedroom. He says to his reflection, "You know, I've fantasized about you being here so many times." Because that's what you do when you meet your fantasy for the first time. You tell them that you've thought about this moment for your whole goddamned life. </p><p>Talking to L doesn't feel real, so, when B talks to L, he operates on the basis that the L he's speaking to is imaginary. Talking to L doesn't feel real because B's had a million fantasies about it, and practice makes perfect, so B has gotten very very good at fooling himself into thinking that he's talking to L. </p><p>And he remembers his emotions from when he was actually talking to L, he categorizes and labels them and makes sure that he knows exactly how they feel to make his fantasy that night all the more realistic. </p><p>"I think your name a lot, L." He says to his reflection. "Do you mind?" </p><p>And he kind of hates L. He hates L because L fits every one of his fantasies perfectly, and he isn't supposed to. L is supposed to be flawed, so that B can say that his fantasies are better. And during the time that L is away, B fantasizes about L. And he exaggerates L's flaws, and he thinks so much about how very imperfect L is.</p><p>But then L comes back, L with his evasions and his half-hearted shovings away and his lips and his hair and his blush and his wit and-</p><p>And he shouldn't be this perfect, because no one can be this perfect. Just thinking about L makes B want him, want to eat him and fuck him and take care of him and tear him into tiny pieces and lock him up somewhere no one will ever find him so that he will belong to B and B alone forever and always. </p><p>B feels so ugly next to L. B feels too tall and too young and he lets his mouth run away from him and he says things that he-</p><p>doesn't mean-</p><p>that he means but shouldn't say because he wants to be perfect like L. He wants to be L, oh god he wants, he wants to be calculating and intelligent and powerful and weird and childish and perfect, and some days he can't decide which he wants more, L or to be L, but he eventually decides that they both go hand in hand, because if B didn't plaster on a fake face and a fake voice and a fake slouch, L would never have been interested in him anyway.</p><p>--</p><p>“It’s just so wrong and it’s just so temporary and fuck if I’m not intoxicated.”</p><p>--</p><p>One day, they’re sitting on L’s bed, just talking and laughing about everything and nothing, and did L know how beautiful he looks when he smiles? And then L jabs him in the ribs and says that he’s way cuter when he smiles, in the childish but not condescending way of his, and then B pretends his chest really hurts and manages to pull L down on top of him, and they’re close and he’s smiling and L’s blushing and it’s everything...</p><p>And the next day, B is standing in front of the mirror again, and L’s voice is taunting him, and the shadows keep sneaking up on him and it’s not fair, it’s not fair because he is the shadows and he’s the one that creeps up on people, and he hears a lady’s voice, and she’s crooning that he started to hope that he could be happy, and he can’t be happy, so now he gets to be afraid of himself again, and he wants to laugh because he’s never stopped being afraid of himself, how could he, he’s a monster and L is terrified of monsters, so he laughs and the woman’s nails are digging into his chin, and then he realizes that they’re his nails, so he stops the bleeding and covers it up with makeup, covers up himself, and he looks at L in the mirror and bites his thumbnail and he wants, he wants he wants he wants so desperately, he wants the person in the mirror so much he wants to break the mirror and use the shattered glass to carve the letter L as many times as possible into his skin.</p><p>--</p><p>A and B had a strange sort of camaraderie, the kind of association that stems from the shared desire to destroy absolutely everything about yourself.</p><p>--</p><p>Rose Tinted Glasses.</p><p>B took a chess board from the wall. He moved a pawn. Idly, L looked over at him, and moved a pawn as well. And if he said something scathing when B won, if he ignored him for the rest of the day even if he wasn't even looking at the board half the time, well, B doesn't have to remember that, does he?</p><p>Rose Tinted Glasses.</p><p>It's what you didn't do to me. It's that you ignored me after you told me to become obsessed with you. No, don't deny it, you know it's true. Well, if I can't make you obsessed with me... maybe I'll hurt you enough that you can't forget it.</p><p>--</p><p>"Come on, love. Let's make a mockery of romance. Let's make a mockery of childishness. Let’s make a mockery of happiness."</p><p>--</p><p>L was blushing.</p><p>Or at least, L would be blushing if he was a dainty little schoolgirl and B was a dainty little schoolboy and they were all living dainty little lives holding dainty little hands.</p><p>Only one part of that former statement was even partly true: B was holding L’s hands. Against his mattress. And L’s cheeks were red, although B wasn’t entirely sure that an objective viewer would consider that he was blushing. Turning red from embarrassment, perhaps. Or shame. That last thought was what really made B smile.</p><p>“I never thought that you could show any emotions on that porcelain face of yours.” B remarked conversationally, his tone rather offset by his position on top of L. “But look at you now.” B smiled at him.</p><p>L offhandedly looked away, trying to maintain his composure. “Please get off of me.”</p><p>“Oh, you don’t mean that.” B grinned. “If you meant that, you’d have kicked me already.” His smile turned mischievous. “I can, however, get you off.”</p><p>L’s face turned, if possible, even redder, and he scrunched up his nose adorably at B’s crude language. “That won’t be necessary.”</p><p>“‘That won’t be necessary.’” B mocked in a high-pitched but still toneless impression of L’s voice. “Do you know how foolish you sound?” The sound of hatred filtered into his voice between the affection. </p><p>“Oh!” He abruptly let go of L’s wrists and rolled off him, his mood shifting from angry to eager in less than a second. “I’ve got something for you.” He stretched his arm from his spread-eagle position on the bed to reach for a mug he had left on the bedside table, and presented it to L, childishly excited. </p><p>L slowly sat up and hesitantly took the mug from B. He sniffed it, and decided to state the obvious. “B, this is hot chocolate.” </p><p>B nodded. “Yes, it is.” </p><p>L paused. “Why have you given me a mug of hot chocolate.” </p><p>B decided not to say his immediate thought of ‘to wash down the bitter taste of my cum,’ deciding that the pink rouge of L’s cheeks did not need any further encouragement and that L would be more amiable towards him if he stopped making advances on him every five minutes. </p><p>Instead, B stated simply, “I thought you might enjoy it.” </p><p>A bit nonplussed, L took a sip of the drink. It was, as expected, hot chocolate. </p><p>B stared at him with wide eyes, and, as a result of his original intentions, kissed him on that lovely pink cheek of his.</p><p>--</p><p>I just want him so much. It was desperate, hopeless, more than a bit pathetic. I’m not like one of those high school sweethearts who thinks we’re meant for each other. </p><p>That’s the thing. One day, he’s going to find someone, and I’ll be rotting god knows where, in a hotel, drinking too-sweet coffee. </p><p>But at the same time, even as I know this, I want to defy destiny for once. I want to duck out of the shadows, grab him, and pull. </p><p>He’ll never want me forever. I’m not so deluded to think we’ll even live together or some shit. But I just want to leave him with a big enough scar to remember me by. That’s all I can do. Mark him enough that he remembers me.</p><p>I already know what he thinks of me as. Or at least, permits himself to think of me as. He thinks of me as his only mistake. Touching, that. </p><p>His only fear. </p><p>Well. If he’s determined to make me his monster...</p><p>...I’d better start dressing up, shouldn’t I? </p><p>Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.</p><p>You know that emotion where everything is just absurdly funny, and you have this urge to just laugh and laugh and laugh because it’s just so hilarious? Because it’s all you can do? </p><p>And then suddenly. It’s not. Suddenly there’s nothing again, and all you’re left with is a stomach ache and a sense of emptiness?</p><p>No, just me?</p><p>That figures. That really figures. </p><p>Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.</p><p>--</p><p>"Happy Birthday!" </p><p>L looked over at B, who was standing in the doorway, from his perch on his bed. "It's not my birthday."</p><p>"Oh, I know that, silly!" B retained his childish eagerness, not at all put out by L's less than enthusiastic response. "But I got you a present!" B schooled his face into an exaggerated mock-pout. "Don't you want to know what it is?"</p><p>L, in fact, was not particularly interested to discover whatever B was offering him, but, knowing that B would not take no for an answer, gave the affirmative. That was rather passive of him, he reflected, and that was odd because he'd always been a combatant person. There was something about B that took the fight out of him -- well, no, not out of him, but it changed direction. His fight wasn't against B. It was for him.</p><p>L coughed, forcing his thoughts to change direction as well.</p><p>B sprung up onto the bed, forcing it to bounce under L. L shivered with something like discomfort and drew his knees close to himself. At that, B drew out a package from behind his back and set it on the bed.</p><p>When it became evident that B was waiting for L to open it, he gingerly drew the package close to him, held it up between thumb and forefinger, and ripped it down the side.</p><p>Inside, he found a black jumper. He looked at B. </p><p>“Is this for me?”</p><p>B’s earlier excitement had dwindled. He looked as though he was bored, or wanted very much for L to think that he was apathetic to the situation. L was leaning towards the latter. “Yes, I got it for you. You should put it on.”</p><p>L reflected that such an action wasn’t incredibly out of character for B, simply because very little was out of character for B. Absently, he said, “I can try it on later.”</p><p>“No,” said B, “I should like you to try it on now.” So that was what it was, then, a competition? L felt a bit more at ease now that he knew the situation, but he also felt nervous. In competitions with B, L sometimes lost. </p><p>L thought that B would expect him to argue. Therefore, if he didn’t, he would have done something that B didn’t expect, and suddenly, that felt terribly important. Still, he hesitated.</p><p>“What’s wrong?” Came B’s voice, lowered in mock concern. He smirked. “Do you need help putting it on? Is it true that Watari dresses you every day?”</p><p>L shook his head. </p><p>He pulled the jumper from its box, slid off the bed and started walking to the bathroom, pausing only once to look back at B. He did not look surprised. Instead, he was staring at him intensely, and L turned around again. </p><p>Walking into the bathroom, he held up the jumper. He felt the material. It was not dissimilar in texture to a few sweaters he had worn in colder months, and he would have wondered if B had noticed that if it had not already been obvious— B always notices. Almost absently, L took off his white shirt and dropped it on the floor, pulling the jumper over his head as he did so. </p><p>When L reentered the room, B's eyes zeroed in on him. He patted the bed next to him. L sat down. "Whammy's House is cold in the winter," B stated. Like L hadn't grown up here.</p><p>L nodded.</p><p>--</p><p>The days L returns to Whammy’s House.</p><p>L would say that he leaves because he has cases that he travels around for, and that he comes back because his cases do not require fieldwork.</p><p>B would say that L leaves because he cannot face being around B any longer, and that he comes back because he can’t be without him.</p><p>L would say that such a statement was very presumptuous of B, and that he did have a life outside of B.</p><p>B would respond to L’s snark with a clear statement of fact, “I don’t have a life outside of you,” and the statement is made true because it’s tone and it’s phrasing and it’s bluntness are all L’s, L’s long before B knew him, and that makes L- uneasy- and so proves B right again. </p><p>In any case, L leaves, and B stays, and L comes back, and B stays.</p><p>L wonders what he would feel if one day he did come back and B wasn’t there. </p><p>When he looks at B, he decides that’s a fruitless method of inquiry, because it’s impossible. </p><p>And then, the day when he came back and B wasn’t there, he merely shrugged and went back to his cases, as B knew he would. And there B was, right there in his list.</p><p>And L knew he had been right all along.</p><p>B would never abandon him.</p><p>L was his whole life.</p><p>-- </p><p>L is a monster.</p><p>L knows that he is a monster. He knows that he can’t let anyone close to him because they’ll end up getting burned, so L doesn’t let anyone in to deal with his lies.</p><p>But there B is. </p><p>There’s B, with his clothes that look just like L’s and his lies that sound just like L’s. </p><p>It’s an invitation. An invitation, from B, that’s telling L to drag him down with him.</p><p>B said that he’s more of a monster than L is, and that’s not true, that’s not true at all, but it is an invitation to L. </p><p>An invitation to make B a lying monster just like L.</p><p>“I was testing you. I wanted to see which one you would choose.” </p><p>Maybe B is a hitman, but L’s the man who hired him. And if they get caught, then they’ll both go down. </p><p>I didn't want to destroy you, B. I didn't want to destroy anyone. But you chased me, and you pushed me, and I never pushed you away.</p><p>And all the while, I was wrapping you in layers upon layers of lies. </p><p>"I'm scared of you, B."</p><p>"He is my only mistake."</p><p>"I want you." (But that one's not a lie, oh no, it just seemed like a lie because my desire for you was a candle next to your flame, wasn't it-</p><p>--</p><p>I never really cared about A. I couldn’t afford to care about anyone. No one would understand me anyway.</p><p>It was only at A’s funeral that if I had any hope of anyone ever understanding me, that person would be A. And I wish... I wish I could have protected him, him and his big dark eyes with not the faintest circles beneath them. </p><p>I wish I could have protected him because he hoped. And I haven’t hoped in a long, long, time. </p><p>There was one night, three months before he committed suicide, that I mark as the point of no return. When I realized, well, just how bad he was. </p><p>I was sitting by the window in my customary way, the way L likes to, just looking out into the countryside and thinking, when A got out of bed and joined me. </p><p>There were quite a few things odd with this picture. Firstly, A was always very meticulous about sleeping exactly nine hours a night, from eleven pm to seven am, so being awake and not even trying to go back to sleep was unusual. Aside from that, he wasn’t even sitting the way he usually did (shoulders back, feet on the floor). He was sitting, hunched over, with his knees on the chair in his too-big hoodie staring at the floor like it had the answers to all the world’s problems.</p><p>I let him sit there for a few minutes, then I asked, maybe as gentle as I could, “Why’re you sitting here? Don’t you need your beauty sleep?” </p><p>And he looked at me, and he laughed, and it was so utterly pathetic and choked and broken that it sounded more like a sob. </p><p>“Don’t you know, Backup? It’s the latest technology. Nowadays, machines keep running twenty-four hours a day, and they don’t get to go to sleep, or they get thrown away.” </p><p>I didn’t even object to him using that name I hated. He went back to staring at the floor. </p><p>After a while, I went to bed. He was still sitting there. </p><p>I think I wish I had said something to him. What, I don’t know. But, something. </p><p>It became something of a pattern. I sat by the window again, the next night. I maintained that I was thinking, but really, I was just doing what I do all the time when L’s not around. </p><p>I was waiting for him. I think that’s what I’ll always be doing. </p><p>So A came over to the chair next to mine again, and he had the faintest impressions under his eyes, and he was nearly as thin as me, now. I realized that I didn’t remember seeing him eat today.</p><p>Him, in his suddenly too-big t-shirt, the faint impressions under his eyes (no where near like mine or L’s), how skinny he was (but still not thin enough), his knees on the chair, he was a mockery of L. A false imposter. A fake fake.</p><p>If I was a caricature, if I was everything about L but more... then he was a painting someone had been drawing of L, but got bored halfway through and forgot the most important details.</p><p>--</p><p>“My name.” It’s the day A is going to die. I know it, and I think he knows it too. </p><p>I can’t stop him. I can’t stop destiny. I don’t think I would, anyway. </p><p>“Huh?” I manage. </p><p>A is fiddling with the hem of his shirt, and it’s so unlike him to show this emotion. “My name is..." he mumbles.</p><p>"What's that?" I ask, just for show, because I know what he's going to say. </p><p>He repeats the sentiment, but louder, and I want to laugh, because I know that. I’ve known his name since the first time I looked at him. But I laugh, because it’s not going to make a difference now. I lean in close to him, like I’m about to tell him a secret, and he doesn’t pull away like he would any other day. </p><p>“No, no. That's not your name.” My eyes are sparkling with mischief. That’s one of my talents, I’d say. I can make the most tragic things seem fun. “Your name is Alternate. Because that’s what you are.”</p><p>And I’m hoping for the first time in a long time that he gets what I’m saying, that he’s not offended. I think he will.</p><p>He does.</p><p>He laughs. I don’t think I’ve heard him laugh once, the entire time he’s been here. What does it say about this place that the first day he laughs is the day he dies?</p><p>“Yes.” He’s practically choking at this point. “My name’s Alternate, and your name’s Backup. Because that’s what we are.” He laughs again. His eyes are wild. </p><p>“Because that’s what we choose to be.”</p><p>I grin at him. And I think, maybe, maybe we’re friends. And the thought is so desperately hilarious that I need to share it with him, so I do. And he gets it. </p><p>“Don’t you know, Backup? L doesn’t have friends.”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s right, Alternate. He doesn’t.”</p><p>He grins at me again, and I think he’s happier today than he has been the entire time I’ve known him.</p><p>“See you around, Backup.”</p><p>“Yeah. Talk to you later.” And we smile at each other, because we’re never going to see each other again, and we’re so happy about it. </p><p>Because it doesn’t mean that we win. Oh no. We could never win against L. But we can give him a minor setback. </p><p>And to be an ant, even minuscule affecting the world of the humans is a feat that goes down in legend.</p><p>--</p><p>B is the type to laugh hysterically. A knows this. Especially recently, B has taken up the habit of just looking in the mirror and just laughing and laughing and laughing. But now, A is standing on the roof of Whammy’s House and has the urge to laugh louder than B ever has. He killed himself when he was six. And now, he’s going to kill L.</p><p>--</p><p>It was a Christian service. </p><p>A would have hated it, as charmingly atheist as he was. B'd never had the heart to tell him that destiny was real. Maybe A was hating it, stuck in that coffin of his. </p><p>B began to hum to himself. "Don't ever laugh as a hearse goes by, for you may be the next to die. They wrap you up in a big white sheet from your head down to your feet..." </p><p>But A had knew he was going to die, and B had known A was going to die, so that meant the only person that had been in the dark had been L. L who wasn't even here. </p><p>If L was ashamed, well, he'd been ashamed before. He'd felt plenty of shame at B's hands. </p><p>Isn't it funny? Hope, I mean. When you feel hope, you think the future is bright, and that's a lie. But when you're hopeless, you think the future is dark, and that's the truth. </p><p>A had spent his whole life lying to himself, so when he became hopeless, he told himself the truth. </p><p>B had always thought that he didn't want to end up like A, idealistic and completely false. But this whole time, he's been like A. </p><p>What's more idealistic than chasing after someone who doesn't want you? </p><p>Well, no, that's not accurate. Someone who wants you enough to not extend the amount of energy needed to push you away.</p><p>Touching, that. Real romantic. </p><p>B walked away halfway through the service. </p><p>A’s funeral was an exercise in stupidity.</p><p>--</p><p>I walked into L's room three days after A killed himself, and I was struck by this sense of... superiority... to L. I decided to test it.</p><p>"Why do you think A killed himself?" And my expression is monotone, and I'm slouching, and if L just turned around he could see himself.</p><p>But I don't think I've ever felt more alienated from him.</p><p>"Oh? I heard it was the stress of succeeding me that got to him." And I'm feeling something for him I've never really felt for him before.</p><p>Disdain.</p><p>I've hated him, sure, I've hated him loads of times, but I've only ever felt this kind of disdain for Whammy, for Roger, for Whammy's House itself, for the world, even.</p><p>Not him.</p><p>But right now, I'm struck by his... lack of understanding. What he just said is such an understatement, such a lie... and I don't even think he's aware he's lying, that's the kicker. Smartest man in the world, ha.</p><p>And I want... I want to teach him how desperately wrong he is. </p><p>I walk over to him. "You don't get it, do you?" I'm practically yelling at this point, but oh well, he's the one who always wants me to stop "acting" like him. I want to shake him until he gets it. I'm his copy. He should get it.</p><p>"Do you have any idea what you did to him? Any idea at all?"</p><p>And then, I realize that he's crying. And it's so absurd, because he's not mourning A. If he was mourning A, he wouldn't be crying. He would be laughing. Standing in front of A's tombstone with the rightwrongrightwrong name on it, and laughing his head off.</p><p>My voice is deceivingly gentle. I cup his cheek. He makes no moves to stop me. </p><p>"No no no, sweet L. That's not how we say goodbye to our tools. We throw them in the garbage can and head to the nearest department store."</p><p>"We don't cry over them, foolish L."</p><p>He raises his head, and he looks furious. </p><p>"Get out of my room. Backup."</p><p>And I know he said that name just to get a rise out of me, but it's just so hilarious.</p><p>I look at his face, and he's crying and he's angry. </p><p>Of course he doesn't get it. He's a human. Why would humans bother with the affairs of ants?</p><p>So I grin at him, and I wink, and I leave.</p><p>I know a secret he doesn't.</p><p>B is a liar.</p><p>~liar liar, pants on fire, sitting on a telephone wire~</p><p>--</p><p>If there is one thing L hates, it is being ordinary. </p><p>Unfortunately for L, B just might be a little weirder even than him.</p><p>--</p><p>I'm not one who typically feels a lot of sympathy. But the first thing I felt when I met A the first few times was pity. Because he was always studying, never having a single expression on his face, and it was so clear that everything about him wanted to become L. And he was going to die twenty years before L. So the whole time I knew him, the main emotion I felt for him was pity.</p><p>Then, it was at his funeral, his funeral that L didn't bother to attend because looking at pictures of murdered people got his rocks off so much, did I finally realize after so much had happened and how different I was from the little boy who met A for the first time, that I saw just how hilarious the whole thing was. The irony that A spent his whole life trying to be L and he didn't even live longer than him. I laughed impossibly long that day.</p><p>--</p><p>Childish.</p><p>L had said, once, on one of his interviews with the Whammy's kids, that he was childish.</p><p>B is watching an anime, with interesting characters and a plot he enjoys, but, more importantly, geared towards a younger audience.</p><p>Now, of course, B is not doing every childish activity he could imagine. That would be foolish. However, the anime's 'childishness' has just enough to do with L to make it acceptable.</p><p>This is how B gets away with doing what he likes. He tricks himself into thinking that it has to do with L. And that's funny. It's so very funny that he's forcing himself to be obsessed.</p><p>And he wants to laugh, but fortunately, the anime has a few comedic scenes, and when it does, B laughs a bit too hard for a bit too long, but just enough. Enough that people wouldn't quite doubt what he was laughing at.</p><p>It makes him wonder who he's performing for. Maybe he's not performing right now. Maybe he's practicing. Maybe the true performance is around L, and he has to be perfect then. </p><p>So B is practicing. </p><p>Whiling away his time before L comes back. </p><p>Because in truth? His act is old, and stale, and perfect. </p><p>--</p><p>And then, years later, B sits in a barren room in a two-room apartment that he spent two days cleaning. Someone with his talents could have easily gotten a fancier apartment, maybe even a house. But that's what L does. L surfs on the most expensive hotels he can find and the fanciest food the country he's in can offer. </p><p>Neurotic egoism, that is. </p><p>B rents an apartment in the bad side of town, the side where L finds his criminals and catches them from his fancy hotel room. He thinks it's fitting. After all, now he'll be one of L's criminals. For an hour, he sits in the squalor and the filth, the scent of death surrounding him. But then he cleans, and wipes the dirt on his jeans the same way he wipes blood off his hands. </p><p>He sits in the room and watches the same anime he did all those years ago, and this time, he laughs the entire time. And by the end he's choking, because absolutely nothing at all is funny.</p><p>And his act is new, and he wears it like a mask, and it'd be all comfortable and safe if he could breathe through it.</p><p>--</p><p>B stared up at the house of his first victim. Believe Bridesmaid. </p><p>Today, and for the rest of his life, he was not going to be B. But he wasn't going to be L, either.</p><p>B was going to become L's monster. </p><p>If L can't be stopped from lying to himself...</p><p>...then B is going to believe his lies, and they're going to live in a tiny little world together, all their own, all completely an illusion.</p><p>--</p><p>After Beyond Birthday was caught, I wondered what would have happened if he had left me. </p><p>He never did, of course. </p><p>If he had, one of us would come crawling back to the other, and we’d fight until we made up.</p><p>It would be fine. It would all be fine. Until one day, B would say something that was a bit too much for me, and I would ignore him, and I would tell myself that I was never going to see him again, and so I felt better. And the next day, I woke up feeling alright, and I saw him right in front of me, and he made me smile again, just like normal, like yesterday had never happened.</p><p>It was fitting, that he was to be burned alive. Because being around him made me feel like I was on fire. </p><p>And I now feel as though I am empty.</p><p>--</p><p>I was in a rather dismal state after B was caught. Depressed, to be honest. My fit only lasted about a week, however. My feeling of emptiness subsided.</p><p>But I can imagine that after I - for it was I who caught him in the end, Misora was merely another tool for me to use, after all - caught him, the flames that I put out never reignited themselves.</p><p>--</p><p>L plays piano when he's upset.</p><p>When he wants to scream, he weaves delicate melodies like gossamer strands to occupy his hands, stop his mind from going a million miles an hour. </p><p>You know that emotion where you're absolutely furious and just want to scream, where you just want to punch a mirror just to see the glass shatter? </p><p>But then, a second later, all the fight drains out of you and you're left slumping to the floor of the bathroom, cradling your bloody hand and wondering why the fuck did I do that, and it hurts, and typically you wouldn't be bothered by the pain, but you suddenly feel so helpless and it hurts and you had no idea how much you relied on him. </p><p>So then L played piano. </p><p>It was the Steinway that used to be in the living room of Whammy's House, but L had requested that it be moved to his room, and considering how he was the only one who had played it, no one had refused him. </p><p>So he walks back into his room at Whammy's, filled with memories so tangible they almost seem about to come to life, and he sits down at his piano, and he wonders why he's such a monster, he wonders why he says such horrible things, and it was all okay when B was alive because B would tell him, 'Oh, that's so mean, L,' with that slightly mocking tone of his, and L knew that B would cry about it the next day and that made him feel better.</p><p>L crept into the living room of Whammy's House. He'd only been here for nine weeks and three days now, and only ventured out of his room on eleven separate occasions. But he'd seen the piano, when Mr. Whammy was shepherding him to his room, seen it out of the corner of his eye. </p><p>His mother had had a piano.</p><p>He hoped, to himself, that he wouldn't disturb anyone... it was, after all, two in the morning. But he climbed up onto the bench, his legs swinging and not quite touching the floor, and he began to play.</p><p>'You're making a mockery of yourself, L.' </p><p>That's what B had said to him, that's what B had said when L had said that B was mocking him. B was mocking him. But B said that L was mocking himself.</p><p>When L had asked him to elaborate, he had, with that slight, mocking, smile on his face. 'Look at you. All curled up into yourself, you and your plain shirts and your sugar cubes and your tea. You're practically begging for someone to imitate you.' </p><p>'What's that supposed to mean?' he had asked, sharper than usual. 'Just because I have my quirks-'</p><p>B had cut him off with a barking laugh. B had been laughing like that a lot more of late, that dry, humorless laugh that L hated and yet couldn't help adoring. </p><p>L couldn't remember when B last gave him that sweet smile.</p><p>'Quirks. That's funny, L. Real funny.'</p><p>He knew what B had meant. L exaggerated his personality and he seemed weird, and B exaggerated L’s personality and seemed weirder still.</p><p>L didn’t need B to make fun of him. He did that to himself all on his own. </p><p>’You’re acting so ridiculous, you know that?’</p><p>’You’re making such a fool of yourself.’ </p><p>B had been right. That nine year old boy would have hated him right now. </p><p>L began to play, curled up into himself, and wishing desperately for someone to stop him.</p><p>--</p><p>Oh, what fools we were. Refusing to call each other friends - why? Determined to prove that we were not careless, that we knew how wrong the world was. I never said ‘I love you’ to him once.</p><p>Why? Oh, I made up my reasons, I pretended this wasn’t a real relationship: but what had been stopping us? He offered to come with me: why didn’t I let him? Watari? He mattered more to me than Watari at the point. </p><p>I was afraid. I was afraid of caring about him. My fear distorted his actions, made him a sadistic monster who only wanted to destroy me, who I spent a few days with every other month against my better judgement. He is so much more than that. But he acclimated to fill that role perfectly.</p><p>I was a fool. </p><p>But maybe we wouldn't have wanted it if we said that we loved each other. Maybe that would've been too boring, too ordinary, too typical.</p><p>Maybe we both needed to be different.</p><p>Oh well. </p><p>It is over, and he was right.</p><p>I am his whole book...</p><p>...and he is but a footnote in mine.</p>
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